Emma pokes her eggs with her fork. She looks from them to me then back to the eggs. "You tried."

"Cruel."

"It's just…" She stabs them again. "Well…"

"Yeah?"

"They're disgusting."

I can't help but laugh. That's her. No sugar coating. No easing me into it. No bullshit. "I haven't improved?"

"Well…" She grabs the Sriracha from the table and drowns her eggs in it. "Yeah, but, honestly, Hunter, you were hopeless then."

"Then?"

"You're still pretty bad."

"Fuck, Em."

"You're great at coffee." She wraps her fingers around her mug. The one that says Sarcasm Loading…. "And sex." Her cheeks flush. "Tattoos."

"Is my ego that fragile."

She motions a little then she scoops eggs and brings them to her lips. She chews and swallows slowly. "Almost edible."

"Almost?"

"I mean, if I was starving and they were my only option…"

"You'd still toss them?"

She laughs. "Better than last time."

"You spit those out."

"Not everyone is good at everything." She stands, brings the plate of eggs to the sink, slides them into the garbage disposal. "Want me to make some?"

"If I haven't scarred you from ever eating eggs again."

She laughs. "No. But I wouldn't mind chocolate oatmeal instead."

"Go for it."

She grabs the oatmeal from the fridge and scoops it into a bowl. "What are you going to eat?"

"How about this legendary chocolate oatmeal?"

"You mock it every time you see it."

True, but—"I'll mock you for whatever you do."

"You're cruel that way."

"I know."

She fills the bowl with water, puts it in the microwave, hits the two minute button, gets to work on the next. "You're going to hate it."

"Not with how much you love it."

"This isn't emo music."

"It's not?"

She laughs. "You're lucky you're so handsome."

"Most of what I've got going for me."

Her eyes find mine. She shoots me that look. The one that means I love you. "Yeah." She leaves the bowl on the counter. Moves back to the breakfast table.

My fingers brush her wrist.

I wrap my hand around it.

Pull her into my lap.

She giggles as she slides her arm around my neck. "Hey."

"Hey." I look up at her. Brush her long hair behind her ear. Rest my palm on her cheek. She's gorgeous, but that's not why I love staring into her eyes. It's that she's Emma. That she's mine. "I have to make this up to you." I motion to my plate of eggs.

"I don't know. It's my fault too. I am your teacher."

She is. She's been teaching me to cook for almost two months now. I've learned a lot, but I'm still terrible. "Maybe I'm unteachable."

"I'm considering that." Her fingers dig into my hair. "At least you're good at following orders."

"You're good at issuing them."

"Don't even."

"You didn't enjoy that?"

Her cheeks flush. "Well, I, uh…"

"You were hot."

"Thank you." She turns her head away from me. "It was fun, but I think this time we shouldn't—"

"You're ready for that?"

"Yeah. I think so." She turns back to me. "Stop asking."

"I have to."

"Do you?"

I nod. I have to know she's okay. To be sure I'm not pushing her. I don't trust myself. Not with all that blood in my cock.

She's too fucking sexy.

It's too easy to let my other brain take over.

"How about we… don't talk about that?" The microwave beeps. She slides from my waist, goes to the kitchen, finishes fixing the first bowl of oatmeal.

It's a process. Cocoa powder. Sliced strawberries. Cinnamon.

She slides the second bowl into the microwave, brings the first to the table, sets it in front of me. "You first."

"Thanks." I pick up my spoon. Take a bite.

It's a lot. As rich as the eighty-five percent chocolate she favors. The oatmeal itself is bitter, but the sweetness of the strawberries balances it.

It's too much for me.

Too rich.

Too chocolaty.

Too bitter.

But fuck knows I'm not admitting that.

Not after how hard I've teased her for her love of sugar.

"You hate it." She laughs as she slides into her seat. "It's okay."

"Not hate."

"Hate."

"It's just…" I break for a sip of coffee, but that doesn't help. The sweetness of the milk and sugar only makes the oatmeal more bitter by comparison. "It's a lot."

"I'm a lot."

"Yeah, but that's why I love you."

Her cheeks flush.

"You think about Ryan's offer?"

"Which offer?"

"To make you assistant manager?"

"Over the summer. It's sweet, but…"

"You'd rather keep your lingerie discount?"

"I don't know. I prefer working at Inked Hearts, but there's not exactly a lot of upward mobility."

My lips curl into a smile.

"What?" Her cheeks flush. That same blush. That omg, why are you giving me that look blush.

"You sound so corporate."

"You're the one who taught me half this stuff."

I shake my head. I helped her with our books, explained a few things to her, but she learned most of it in school. Or from experience.

Emma is smarter than I am.

Smarter than she gives herself credit for.

She's good at what she does.

She could manage the shop if she wanted.

Or she could start her own.

Hell, she can take the world by storm.

I want that for her.

I really do.

"You're looking at me funny." She yelps as the microwave beeps.

"Funny how."

"You know how." She slides out of her seat, moves into the kitchen, fixes the second bowl of oatmeal. "Ryan might take it back. Once we tell him."

"Dean and Chloe work together."

"Yeah, but—"

"They're wildly inappropriate."

"True. I just…" She drops strawberries in the bowl. "What happens when we tell everyone?"

I wish I had a good answer for her, but I don't.

"What if Brendon kicks you out?"

"I can deal with that." I've found a place. But not the right moment to tell everyone.

Or schedule my move out.

It's a big deal, being on my own.

As much as I hate having to hide this from Brendon, it's nice staying at his place.

Knowing someone is around if I get lonely or scared or desperate for a drink.

Knowing someone is going to hold me accountable.

My own place—that's a lot of freedom.

Freedom to fuck Emma.

And freedom to fuck up.

"What if he lobbies to get you fired?" she asks.

"He won't."

"You're sure?"

No. Brendon is usually reasonable. But he is protective of Emma.

And he knows all the ugly stuff I've done.

He knows what a piece of shit I can be.

He knows better than anyone.

But he's seen me claw my way out of shit too.

If Brendon really thinks I'm not good enough for his sister—

Maybe he's right.

I swallow hard.

I don't want to acknowledge the possibility.

But it's there.

It's possible I'm not what's best for Em.

And, whatever happens, I'm not getting in the way of Em blossoming.

She has a big, beautiful life ahead of her.

I want to be a part of it.

But not if I'm holding her back.

"Where are you going?" she asks.

"Your brother is more reasonable than you think."

She sticks her tongue out. "He's a caveman."

"He's looking out for you."

"So you think he'll be okay with this?"

"Yeah." Mostly.

"You want to tell him?"

"Soon."

"How soon?"

"By the end of the month," I say.

"That's soon."

"I know."

"Maybe we can do it at the shop. Or a party. Tell him then. When other people are around. So he can't throw a fit."

"Strategic."

She nods. "You have to be." She brings a scoop of cocoa oatmeal to her mouth. Chews. Swallows. Sighs. "How can you not love this?"

"I do." I love that sigh.

Her cheeks flush.

It never gets old.

"Okay, I'll agree to this on one condition." She takes another bite. Licks the cocoa from her lips.

"Yeah?"

"You don't bring it up until then."

"Fair. But I have my own condition."

"Yeah?" she asks.

"You go back to your bedroom and take all your clothes off."

"Right now?"

"After this," I say.

"That's kind of manipulative."

"We can play Bayside."

Her lips curl into a smile. "That was never up for negotiation."

"You're training me."

"Oh?"

"I hear that emo—"

"Watch it."

"And I think about tearing your clothes off."

"I don't have a problem with that."

"You will."

"No." She shakes her head. "I'll always want you tearing my clothes off."

"At work?"

"Yeah."

"In front of your brother?"

"I'll stop playing it in front of him."

"He'll be glad."

"Yeah." She laughs. "But it's worth it." Her eyes spark. There's no fear or apprehension. Just joy. "You're ridiculous."

"Yeah, but you love it."

"I do." She takes another bite. Chews. Swallows. "I have a counter-proposal."

"I'm listening."

"You go to my room and take all your clothes off."

"We go together?" I offer my hand.

"Take each other's clothes off." She offers her hand.

"It's a deal."

We shake.